Antique Blues

by Jane K. Cleland

  I agreed.

  Chester caught Phyl’s eye and drew a few lines of text in the air. Phyl delivered the check on the run.

  I reached for my wallet.

  He held up a hand to stop me. “Allow me. Please.”

  “I invited you.”

  He smiled and placed three dollar bills under the salt shaker. “Next time.”

  “Thank you, Chester.”

  Two minutes later, we were in our cars, traveling toward a restaurant I’d never heard of and knew nothing about. Before heading out, I texted Cara to tell her where I was going, just in case.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Chester led the way to Ocean Terrace. Halfway down the block, he turned into a long driveway, passing eight-foot-high fieldstone columns. He wound his way around a Tudor-style mansion and parked in a roomy lot at the rear. There were about twenty cars scattered throughout the space. If the name Colonial Twist appeared anywhere, I couldn’t see it.

  I got out, locked my car, and leaned against the still-damp hood.

  “I don’t care if you’re having the party of the year, I’m not going home with you, Chester.”

  He smiled. “This isn’t my home. This is my restaurant. Come on in.”

  “You don’t believe in signage?”

  “Adds to the allure. If you don’t know it’s here, you’re not in the know.”

  “How does anyone know it’s here?”

  “Word of mouth. I opened with the support of some important customers, and they spread the news.”

  “I go out for an occasional cocktail and dinner, and I didn’t know about it.”

  “You’re not my target customer.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re too wholesome.”

  I laughed. “You’re not bringing me to a strip club, are you?”

  “Where the girls wear go-go boots like back in the sixties and do the Twist?”

  I laughed louder. “While wearing skimpy Revolutionary War–era clothing. The Colonial Twist, get it?”

  He guffawed. “You have quite an imagination, Josie. No, we’re just a fancy white-tablecloth joint.”

  “Just because I’m a regular at a diner doesn’t mean I don’t like to get dressed up now and again.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. You’re welcome anytime.”

  The door was impressive. It was made of walnut and was ten feet high, with a hammered pewter handle. Chester pushed a square silver metal panel affixed to the wall, and the heavy door swung out. Inside, a middle-aged man wearing a twentieth-century British uniform welcomed us. His helmet was white with red feathers. His jacket was red with epaulets and black insets at the wrist. His slacks were black. An attractive woman in her twenties smiled as we stepped over the threshold. She wore a knee-length black long-sleeved sheath, conservative pumps, and pearls. She took Chester’s coat and handed him a chit.

  The entryway was paneled in dark wood with dentil crown molding and box molding below a marquetry chair rail. The ceiling was painted sky blue. Three ceiling fans kept the air moving. The blades were shaped like palm fronds, constructed of a tan grassy material. I felt as if I’d stepped through the looking glass.

  The doorman opened a second door located at the end of the entryway, and Chester gestured that I should precede him. We crossed into a beautifully appointed lounge. The room featured the same wood paneling as the entryway. Oversized black leather couches and beige corner chairs with tufted upholstery were grouped into conversation areas. Red-and-blue Oriental rugs covered the hardwood floor. A gas fire blazed in a fieldstone-enclosed fireplace. Nineteenth-century paintings hung on the walls, including a still life depicting a bountiful harvest, a landscape of rolling hills and a meandering stream, and a hunting scene, the hounds frisking around the horses. On the right, a bar ran half the length of the room. Two men sat on leather stools at the far end. Beyond the bar was the restaurant. Heavy wine-colored velvet drapes covered the windows. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons played softly in the background.

  I turned slowly, taking it all in. “I’m gobsmacked, Chester. I can’t wait to come back for drinks with my fiancé.”

  “Wonderful! I want to show you something else, but first, let’s toast to our new friendship. What’s your pleasure?”

  The bartender, a man in his fifties with wavy brown hair, strolled toward us. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt under a tartan plaid vest and black slacks.

  “I’m not speechless often, but seeing this place … well … I think a Bombay Sapphire on the rocks with a twist is in order.”

  “Maker’s Mark for me, Jeremy.”

  Chester pulled out a stool for me. I climbed up, and he followed.

  The bar railing was cylindrical, made of brass, with foot-high elephant heads mounted on the braces that attached the railing to the bar.

  I pointed to an elephant head. “That’s fabulous.”

  “I had it made by a retired ironworker. I described what I wanted, and he did the rest.”

  Chester swiveled to face me. “The Colonial Twist is a profit-making enterprise. We offer a full bar but a limited menu, only four items: a ribeye steak, a grilled chicken Caesar salad, my mother’s lasagna, and lobster alfredo primavera. I also run the Colonial Club, a nonprofit social club. The proceeds from the club are used to teach ex-cons to cook. We then help them get internships and jobs.”

  “You have convicts working here?”

  “No. That program is run out of a different facility over in Durham. We have a stellar track record, and I’m proud of it. More than ninety percent of our students never go back to prison.”

  Jeremy placed a linen cocktail napkin in front of me. Real linen, winter white and crisply ironed. He centered my heavy cut-crystal glass on the napkin.

  “That’s terrific, Chester.”

  He touched the rim of his glass to mine. “To new friends.”

  I raised my glass. “To new friends.”

  “We also partner with other local nonprofit organizations to help them do their good works—the Rocky Point Computer Literacy Foundation, New Hampshire Children First!, and the Harmonics Glee Club, among a dozen others.”

  “I’m involved with New Hampshire Children First! myself. It’s a fabulous organization.”

  “You see … I knew we’d get along.” He slid off his stool and picked up his drink. “Follow me. You can bring your drink.”

  He set off for the end of the bar. I carried my drink, wrapped in the napkin, and trailed along.

  At the end of the bar, another uniformed doorman stood by a door on the right. He pushed it open, and we passed through into a square, windowless room. An older woman, wearing the same style of black sheath as the younger woman at the front, stood behind an ornately carved hostess stand. She smiled at us but didn’t speak. To her right was a double set of doors. A security camera was mounted overhead.

  “You have ID on you?” Chester asked me.

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Because everybody has to sign in.”

  I met his eyes across the top of my glass. I swallowed some gin, then went up on tiptoe and leaned in close so he could catch my whisper. “This sounds like a setup.”

  “What kind of setup?” he whispered back.

  “You’re making a porn movie. You’ve got Cal tied up in there. You plan on holding me for ransom.” I drank some more gin. “And that’s just off the top of my head.”

  He guffawed again. “I love your imagination, Josie Prescott! It’s not a setup. No porn. No Cal. No kidnapping.”

  “I don’t want to sign in.”

  “Rules are rules.”

  “Let’s go back to the bar.”

  “You need to see this.”

  “Then show me.” I drank some more. “I’m kind of a privacy fiend, Chester. I show my ID to my banker and at the airport when I want to board a plane. Nowhere else.” I lifted my head to the security camera and waved. “Plus, you’ve already got me on film.”

  Chester considered my request for ten se
conds. “Why not? I can make an exception.”

  Chester made a whirling motion with his hand, and the doorman sprang forward and pulled open the doors, revealing a casino, all glitz and glam, mirrors, and gilt.

  My mouth opened, then shut. “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope. The nonprofit Colonial Club runs the casino. The earnings pay for the good works.”

  I began a slow inspection. The place was about a quarter full, more men than women, most of them in their fifties or older, all of them well dressed, well kempt, and totally absorbed with the action. Ice clinked in glasses, chimes and bells rang out from the slots, conversation purred softly, riddled with occasional exclamations of pleasure or dismay, and the dealers calling out the odds and the bets and the winning combinations spoke in well-modulated tones. All the dealers, both men and women, were dressed like Jeremy. Women in black sheaths and pearls and men in tuxedos walked the floor serving drinks, clearing empties, pushing in chairs, and picking up any stray bits of litter. The ceiling was mirrored. Security cameras were mounted everywhere, in the light fixtures, above the paintings hanging on the walls, and over every doorway. I counted three blackjack tables, two roulette wheels, a craps table, and half a dozen rows of slot machines. Four oval felt-covered poker tables were positioned behind a brass railing. To my left was a booth labeled TICKETS. Next to it was another booth, the sign reading CHIPS.

  I turned to face Chester. “Is this legal?”

  “Hell, yes. We use tickets and chips, not cash.”

  “People buy tickets at one booth and redeem them for chips at a second.”

  “Exactly. It’s on the up-and-up.”

  “If I have winnings, I reverse the process.”

  “And pay out we do. We have a payout rate of nearly ninety-seven percent.”

  “I don’t know the industry, but that sounds impressive.”

  “It is.”

  Six people sat at a roulette table. No one was talking. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on the spinning red-and-black wheel.

  “That’s why Cal owes you money. He lost.”

  “Big-time. Sixty-two thousand dollars.”

  “My God! That’s probably more than he earns in a year!”

  “It’s a problem.”

  “You let people play on tick?”

  “Only when I know them. He’s never stiffed me before.”

  “Has he lost that much before?”

  “Not that much, no. But he’s lost over twenty grand before. More than once.”

  “He lives on his salary. How did he raise the money?”

  “He took to dealing art.”

  “Japanese woodblock prints.”

  “I don’t know the specifics. What I do know is that he has a reliable source, or so he told me. He was cautious about it. He didn’t want to flood the market and make a stir.”

  “Counterfeits.” The roulette wheel slowed to a stop, and the dealer slid piles of chips to the winners. “Why are you showing this to me?”

  “Maybe you’re a gambler. I need new blood.”

  I laughed. “You’re a piece of work, Chester Randall. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t gamble. Not the way you mean.”

  “No harm in trying.”

  “I can tell when someone’s pulling my leg.” I shook my glass a bit, spinning the ice, then drank some gin. “What do you do with people who don’t pay their debts?”

  “I don’t break kneecaps, if that’s what you’re asking. I work out a payment plan.”

  “How did you get onto Nora?”

  “He brought her here a couple of times. They seemed pretty simpatico, if you catch my drift. When it became clear he wasn’t going to pay up, I got her name from the door. Unlike some people I could name, Nora had no problem signing in. Nora is a lively girl.”

  “Lively? That’s a word with multiple meanings. Which one do you intend?”

  “The tight-skirt-cling-to-your-man-bat-your-lashes-drink-oodles-of-champagne kind of lively.”

  “That’s a very colorful description, and paints a profoundly different picture than the straight-arrow young woman I know. Did you research her at all?”

  “She’s been married to a man named Kevin Burke for seven years, and she works at Hitchens University, in financial aid.”

  “Why haven’t you approached her directly?”

  Chester laughed again. “I can tell you’ve never had an affair. I’ve seen how she looks at Cal. She’d never give him up.”

  “That condo complex she turned into—is that where she lives?”

  “Yes. I was hoping she’d go to Cal’s hidey-hole for a little canoodle before going home.”

  “What makes you think he hasn’t taken off for California or Bali or somewhere?”

  “Same reason I think he’s alive. If he’d left town or died, she’d be upset. Instead, she glows like a girl in love. He’s safe and sound, and she knows where.”

  “You should be a detective. Have you shared these insights with the police?”

  “Nah. If I had any evidence…”

  “Why are you telling me, Chester?”

  “Two reasons. First, I admire you. I have for years. I read the papers. I know who you are and what you’ve accomplished. Your TV show is one of my wife’s favorites. She says she wishes she had a daughter like you. We have three sons, wonderful boys, all of them, and she loves them like nobody’s business, but a woman wants a daughter, too, and if she had her pick, that daughter would be you.”

  I looked away, embarrassed at the tears that sprang to my eyes. After a moment, I turned back. “Please thank your wife for me. That’s one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever received.”

  “I will. She’ll be pleased. Second, I think you’re going to find Cal, and when you do, now that we know each other and you see I’m a good guy, I think you’ll tell me where he is.”

  “What makes you think I can find him?”

  “Because you’ll know how to trace him through the art he’s selling. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  “You’ve given me an idea, Chester. I may actually be able to help.” I looked around some more. “Why all the cloak-and-dagger if the casino is on the up-and-up?”

  “This is a private club, and I think you’ll agree that I’ve created a nice atmosphere, different from what you find in public casinos. Tourists in droopy shorts and sandy flip-flops don’t fit.”

  “‘Nice’ isn’t the word I’d use to describe this place. ‘Sophisticated,’ maybe. Not ‘nice.’”

  “I’m modest.”

  I smiled. “Is there an initiation fee?”

  “Sure. Ten thousand.”

  My eyes widened. “Ten thousand dollars? Are you telling me Cal paid you ten thousand dollars?”

  “No, his other girlfriend did. Lydia Shannon. She bought him a membership.”

  “Lydia’s a gambler?”

  “She likes a game or two. Blackjack, mostly. She came the first time as her father’s guest.”

  Frank still gambled, and that meant he’d lied to Trish. I knew it wasn’t any of my business, but I felt disappointed nonetheless. “Does Lydia lose?”

  “All gamblers lose.”

  “Does she lose so much she needs to run on tick?”

  “No.”

  “How about Frank?”

  “He’s a disciplined player. If he loses a thousand, he shrugs it off. If he wins a thousand, he tips the dealers big and walks away. Usually.”

  “Usually?”

  “He’s had his moments.”

  “How bad?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m trying to get a feel for the situation.”

  “He lost upwards of a hundred thousand about a year ago, but we’ve worked it out.”

  “That’s a big number.” I watched the poker players for a few seconds. Three men, all wearing sport coats and ties, and a woman wearing a red turtleneck dress were examining their cards. They all had piles of chips in front of them. Four cards sat faceup i
n the middle of the table. I could almost feel the intensity of their deliberation as they weighed their options. “That looks like Texas Hold’em.”

  “It is.”

  I finished my drink. “If I find Cal before you do, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you. And vice versa.”

  We shook on the deal, and Chester walked me out.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Josie Prescott.”

  “You, too, Chester Randall.”

  I turned left out of Chester’s Tudor enclave toward Ocean Avenue. When I reached Ocean, I pulled onto the sandy shoulder and called Wes.

  He answered on the first ring, sounding out of breath, which he probably was. Wes always moved at warp speed.

  “Whatcha got?”

  “Do you know the Colonial Twist?”

  “No. What is it, a dance?”

  “A restaurant and bar. High end. The owner is Chester Randall. He also runs a nonprofit social club called the Colonial Club.”

  “Here in Rocky Point?”

  “Yes. Can you find out about them—and him?”

  “Is this connected with Mo?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Tell me the names again.”

  I did so. “Thank you, Wes.”

  “You owe me, big-time.”

  “You know I give you what I can as soon as I can.”

  “See that you do.” Wes’s tone morphed from pugnacious pit bull to kid brother in the snap of a finger. “Listen, I need a favor.”

  “Sure. What?”

  “I’m applying to be a justice of the peace. I need references who’ll attest to my good moral character. I know, it’s stupid, but what can I say … it was Maggie’s idea. She transferred into her bank’s compliance division, and she works with lawyers all the time. It turns out justices of the peace can take depositions, and she thinks that since I ask questions for a living as a reporter, I might be pretty good at it. I don’t know. I think it sounds pretty lame.”

  “I think it’s a great idea, Wes. I bet you’ll be applying to law school within a year.”

  “No way.”

  “Never say never. And of course I’ll write you a reference.”

  “Thanks. I’ll send you the paperwork. The thing is … I’m doing it because we can use the extra money. I mean … well … Maggie is pregnant.”